


neither up nor down

by vlieger



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could've given you a massage," says Rudy against his neck, breath hot, "But I thought this was probably a lot less gay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither up nor down

**Author's Note:**

> it's possible this is hugely inaccurate, both in terms of post-series canon (actually i'm sure in that sense it's hugely innacurate) and events from the series itself. i wrote this ages ago and don't have time to go back and rewatch for accuracy right now, although i will get to it. whatever, go with it until then!

"How's it goin'?" says Doc, slumping beside Rudy against the Humvee. He lets his shoulders mold into the sun-hot metal, surveying the powdery, grass-dusted AO. His eyes are heavy, already half in his grave, slewed at 50% watch with sweat and congealed, skittering nights propped awake on the road. 

"Little conflicted today, brother," says Rudy. His weapon clicks as he shifts it in his arms.

"I'd forgotten there was any other state of being," says Doc. 

"Seems that way, don't it," says Rudy.

"Is that way," says Doc. 

"Now, Doc." Rudy slants him a half-grin, washed-out white beneath the bare sun. "You gotta get this positive thinking thing down. See how well it does me."

"We can't all be Rudy Motherfucking Superman Reyes," says Doc. 

"True." Rudy nods. "Still, Doc Bryan ain't such a bad thing either."

"You sure about that?" Doc arches an eyebrow. 

"Pretty fuckin' sure," says Rudy. 

Doc huffs a laugh. "I'll take your word for it," he says. 

 

He learns quickly that he's not really a Corpsman, here. He's not Navy. He's a Marine. You have to be, or it'll eat you up, all of it: the AO, the guys, the logistics. Marines are a whole new ball-game, but Doc's always been a fast learner, and even so, you catch on quick, in Iraq.

 

"I got an injury, Doc," says Rudy, holding up his index finger. There's a cut, or more of a scratch, really, just below the first knuckle, about three millimetres long.

Doc's mouth twitches. "If I had Disney Princess band-aids, Reyes, I'd give you one. Other than that, there's not much I can do. You're getting soft like the rest of these whining motherfuckers."

"Disney Princess band-aids?" Rudy turns his hand to look at the cut, eyes wide. "It's that serious?"

"'Fraid so," says Doc. He purses his lips. "Tell you what," he says. "Here." He squats down by his pack, pulls out a regulation-colour band-aid and a pen. He wraps the band-aid around Rudy's finger and scrawls something on it with the pen, tongue between his teeth. "There," he says. "That should do it."

Rudy turns his finger around again, squinting at the smudged black smiley-face there. He grins. "Excellent improvisational skills as usual, Doc," he says, snapping off a salute. 

Doc shrugs. "I do what I can," he says, picking up his pack and turning back to the Humvee.

Rudy watches his shoulders settle a little looser into his MOPP suit, just a little, his jaw not quite so tight. 

It's not much, but it never is, here, and all things considered, this little something is, in Doc's case, really pretty fucking spectacular. 

 

Rudy finds Doc sprawled in the dirt with a water canteen and a scrap of an old t-shirt before they're Oscar Mike out of the airfield, hands cradled between his legs. 

"Here you go, brother," he says, crouching behind him and holding a sliver of soap over his shoulder. 

Doc doesn't take it. "You ever get so angry," he says, scrubbing slowly, viciously at his hands with the damp rag, "That you come full circle and forget that's what you are?"

"I think everyone knows what angry is supposed to look like," says Rudy thoughtfully, dropping his ass to the ground and stretching his legs out alongside Doc's, "But Marines can't kick up a shit-fit like everyone else, so half the time we don't notice how fucking furious we are."

"Ooh-fucking-rah," says Doc. 

"It's for the best," says Rudy. 

Doc curls his fingers, scrubbing ineffectually at his blood and dirt-crusted nails. "A bit of righteous fucking anger wouldn't go astray with this clusterfuck command," says Doc. 

"You gotta believe it's for the best," says Rudy quietly. "Take the soap, brother."

Doc sighs. "Keep it," he says. 

"It's all the same," says Rudy, "Doesn't make a difference whether you waste it here or I waste it somewhere else later. Take it."

He watches Doc take the soap, slowly clean his hands again, scraping at his nails. 

He breathes deep when he's done, a whisper-light tremor licking the rush of air like the cough of an engine, twisting the last white tooth of soap between his fingers. 

"Not quite wasted," says Rudy, smiling. 

Doc glances at him. "Yeah," he says. The light on his face is soaked in shadow, laced with dust, and carrying the cold touch of night air, but Rudy beside him is warm, solid. 

He lines up their breaths without realising, mirroring the slow expand and contract, expand and contract of Rudy's chest.

 

"Doc," calls Rudy from his grave.

"Jesus fuck, Reyes," says Doc, twitching. He stops, squinting at Rudy, almost hidden beneath the shadow of his Humvee and the nearly-set sun. 

"You got tension," says Rudy serenely, crossing his arms beneath his head. "I can see it from here, and that's sayin' something, since it's almost too dark to see anything without a Thermal."

"No fuckin' shit I got tension," says Doc. 

"You got a headache, too?"

"I," says Doc. "Are you getting at something, Reyes?"

"You got somewhere to be?" says Rudy, propping himself up on his elbows. 

"Yeah, Person's hosting a tea-party over in Two-One's Victor," says Doc, rolling his eyes. 

"I wouldn't be surprised." Rudy chuckles. 

Doc pauses, then snorts. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe, if Colbert weren't here."

"True words, brother," says Rudy. He sits up. "Hey, you got time, then. C'mere."

"What," says Doc. 

Rudy says, "Come on," and tugs at Doc's trousers until he's crouching.

"What," says Doc again, and then, "Hey!" as Rudy tugs sharper, half-wrestles him into his grave. "What the fuck, Reyes," says Doc, breathing hard, glaring up at Rudy, hovering over him. 

"Tension," repeats Rudy. "I'm just trying to help."

Doc opens his mouth. Rudy kisses him. It's rough and almost inexpert, if not for the way he's holding Doc still and in place with his hands clamped just above his elbows. Doc struggles until he doesn't, and holds up on kissing back until he does. Rudy's a relentless motherfucker.

He mutters, "There, see," and loosens his grip as Doc relaxes, flexing his arms. There'll be finger-shaped bruises tomorrow, not that anyone will see them beneath the layers of DCU.

"You're too nice for your own good," says Doc, rasping low in his throat. 

He brushes a hand along Rudy's side and watches him twitch. The movement's too small, too disciplined, cut off almost as soon as it starts, to tell whether it's into his touch or away from it. 

"Could say the same for you, brother," whispers Rudy, ducking his nose into the hollow of Doc's cheek. His hair tickles the stretch of skin between Doc's eyes, and he wonders idly how he manages to keep it so long. Not that it really matters, fuckin' bullshit grooming standard, when they're like this, rutting in the bottom of a dug-out grave like insects, half under the oil and smoke-thick stink of Rudy's Humvee, buried beneath the long shadows and tricks of the last dusky light, like a fleeting mirage or sleep deprived mindfuck. 

It's careful though it looks anything but. Still, they're not stupid; fucking stupid enough to take it this far, yeah, but the slide of Rudy's shirt up his chest, rucked just so to the bottom of his sternum, is the perfect height for him to tug it down again in half a second, their only half-undone belts, their aligned unzipped trousers easy to keep in hand if they need to scramble out from under here, fumbling at them like they were just out taking a shit behind the Humvee, ready to hit the road in less than a minute. 

There's no shout, though, nothing but the soft, thankfully distant lilt of conversation, the far-off rumble of gunfire, and them, rustling clothes and harsh breaths buried beneath it all. 

When he comes it's harder than he has since he left the States, but someone else's hand will do that to you. 

Rudy's hand, calloused from gripping wheels and weapons, barricading against all his coiled strength, will do that to you. 

It's a surprise when Rudy comes, Doc just gathering the wherewithal to move his hand and finish returning the favour, the cracked tips of his fingers tickling, half-accidental, against the vein lining the underside of Rudy's dick. He shudders out his orgasm, arms trembling with it, with the effort of holding himself up. 

Doc says, pulling his hand away, wet with come, "Jesus, you fucking relax too. It's not gonna kill me."

Rudy huffs a laugh and lets himself slump. Doc drags in a laboured breath. He was maybe lying a little bit. Rudy's fucking heavy. 

"I could've given you a massage," says Rudy against his neck, breath hot, "But I thought this was probably a lot less gay."

Doc stares up at the underside of the Humvee, at the blackened, star-dusted, strange-looking sky, and laughs. 

It's genuine and involuntary and he feels nothing like himself, but he thinks, shifting to draw in another breath, Rudy warm all over him, that's maybe a good thing. 

 

It's not weird, after. Doc gets the feeling that Rudy doesn't do weird, and as for himself, on top of everything else, he just doesn't have the energy, pure and simple. 

Besides which, he kinds of likes having Rudy around like this, not too close, not sardine-squashed into the same Victor, just hovering, friendly, just enough.

 

"You know, homes," says Ray thoughtfully, leaning towards Doc with that odd, easy conspiratorial grace he has with everyone at a moment's notice, "All we ever talk about in the Corps is the white man and gay-ass shit. What do you think that means?"

"I'm not a fucking shrink, Person," says Doc.

"Yeah, homes, but you're _educated_ ," says Ray.

Doc rolls his eyes. "Well," he says, "It could mean that we're all racist homophobes. Or gay-ass racists. Or peace-loving tolerant motherfuckers, but judging by your whiskey-tango trailer-park background and the baby-killing company you keep, I highly doubt that scenario holds true."

"Dude," says Ray, "Doc. You've been spending way too much time with Sergeant Colbert."

"Sergeant Colbert and I happen to share the same opinion of you, Person," says Doc. "Since we're both so educated, I'd advise you to consider the possibility it might be an accurate one."

"Wow, Doc," says Ray. "This education thing has clearly paid off."

"Clearly," says Doc, slanting his eyes over Ray's shoulder, out onto the barren dusty desert.

 

Doc's eyes cut grey through the grey surrounding them, oddly, incandescently bright through the perpetual Marine squint into the sunlight, into the distance, into the hoards of Hajis. 

He doesn't talk about the way the first casualties outside of Nasiriyah make the bile well in his throat even as his training kicks in and his hands stay almost terrifyingly steady. 

It's not fear that does it. It's pure fucking anger. 

He doesn't talk about how close he comes to losing his shit when Godfather kicks up a hissy about Cas-Evacing that kid. 

When Encino man asks him, he says, "Well, sir, it's just that you're incompetent, sir," and, "Sir, it's not good enough," and that says it all better than much else could.

He's always preferred fewer words. They're more effective laid against a history of silence.

It doesn't make him feel better. It's not going to change a single fucking thing. 

At least maybe now Encino Man will feel a little closer to despair over it. 

It's a hollow, vindictive little victory, but he's a Marine now, and Marines make do. 

 

It's a strange feeling, being simultaneously so disconnected from what you feel and being overrun by it. Stepping out of the gnawing frustration, the anger, killing with a clear mind, stone-cold focus, and then back into it, nothing but remorseless death and despair-salted exhaustion. 

Doc watches Rudy making espresso from the top of his Humvee, watches Person talk shit at Brad and Brad's shark-smile when he knows Ray's not watching, and thinks it's really fucking messed-up, the way he's not cut out for this job, not like the others, and yet he is, too, more than most of them. Steadier. Calmer. No incompetent fuck-ups. 

This place is full of enough contradictions and hypocrisies to do your head in, if you let it.

"Espresso, Doc?" Rudy holds the machine over the edge of the Humvee. 

Doc blinks down at him. "Sure." He shrugs.

"Drink up, brother." Rudy grins, pouring out a mug for Doc. "This is the good stuff."

"Hey Doc," shouts Ray, "Come grace us plebeians with your sophisticated company! I'm worried Brad's gonna have an aneurysm if he doesn't get someone all educated and shit to talk to."

"You callin' me uneducated, dawg?" Poke raises an eyebrow at Ray. 

"Hell no, Poke. I'm just saying that your-- " Ray pauses. Poke rolls his eyes. "Vernacular is more akin to my own down-home style conversation, whereas Doc talks posh, like Brad."

"And that your incessant preaching about the oppressive white man bearing down on your poor minority, whatever the fuck that happens to be today, does get a little tiresome," adds Brad.

"I don't appreciate you likening my speech to your whiskey-tango, mangled bullshit English, motherfucker," says Poke to Ray. "Also, fuck you, Brad, it's white men like you making comments like that who foster the oppression of my people."

"I think this might be a good time to once again remind everyone that our Team One leader is Jewish," says Ray grandly. He waves an arm in a wide, sweeping arc. "The oppressed, the downtrodden, the shunned-aside. Hell, Brad's people were being oppressed by the white man before they knew your people existed, Poke."

"Thank you, Ray," says Brad. 

"You're welcome, Sergeant," says Ray. "Although could you call Egyptians white? Technically I guess you'd have to call them black, since they're from Africa and all. Hey! Poke, look, I've got it all figured now. Your people were oppressing Brad's people before the white man even arrived. He came later and started fucking you all over."

"I'm Mexican, motherfucker," says Poke. "And if you even think about saying 'same difference,' I'll kick your ass so hard Brad's gonna have to find him a new RTO."

"Poke!" Ray pouts. "I would never do such a thing to my favourite Mexican by way of Harlem with a detour through Pocahontas-land. All I'm saying is, you and Brad should put aside your differences and bond all peaceful and hippie-like over your joined oppression. It could be so beautiful." He bats his eyelashes. 

"Pocahontas isn't a place, is it?" Trombley frowns. "I thought it was a movie."

"Pocahontas is the Indian girl, retard," says Ray. 

"Native American, dawg," says Poke.

"Jesus Christ," says Brad. 

"Rudy!" shouts Walt, shaking off a laugh. "Get your Zen motherfucker ass down here and calm these fucknuts down."

"Aye, aye." Rudy grins, saluting with the espresso machine. 

"And bring Doc!" shouts Ray, obnoxiously loud. 

Rudy grins at Doc. "Come on, brother," he says. "We've been summoned."

"You ladies might want to tone down the whining for five minutes," says Doc, climbing down from the Victor. "Keeping my distance is the only reason I can find it within myself to cure the disgusting diseases your weak fucking asses contract out here."

Rudy chuckles quietly behind him. Doc allows himself a small smirk, stretching out in tandem with his limbs in the sun.

 

The warmth doesn't last, literally or otherwise. 

Halfway to dusk the clouds roll over, swift and businesslike, not unlike the rumble of Humvees beneath them, and the rain starts spitting down, thin and drizzling like the static hiss of the radios. 

Doc sits silently in his seat, eyes sharp, blinking automatically every half-minute or so to clear the water from his lashes, fingertips poised light and ready on his M4 balanced through the window, half-listening to T's quiet curses every time a particularly obnoxious raindrop hits him in the face, Stinetorf's rhetorical complaints, Baptista's Portuguese timed perfectly to the rhythm of his hands over the wheel. 

Every so often Lovell chips in with the obligatory renewed recall of responsibility, calling for quiet. 

"Alright there, Doc?" he asks sometime after dark, glancing over his shoulder. 

"Fine," says Doc. 

"Not feeling so great, man," says T under his breath. 

Doc glances at him sharply. "Drink some fucking water," he says. 

He watches through his peripheral as T takes a long, one-handed drink. 

"Christ." He rolls his eyes, turning them back onto the sluggish, shadow and rain-soaked terrain bouncing by. "It's like taking a roadtrip with a bunch of toddlers."

"Shut it, Doc," says T mildly. 

Doc slants him a look. "Just keep drinking that water," he says. 

 

Doc watches Rudy from his Victor when he marches back from Charlie's roadblock. He knows the look on his face. "Clusterfuck," he mutters, shaking his head. "Jesus."

He keeps his eyes on Rudy as he heads back to Two-Two, and doesn't move, because he's a medic, not a fucking shrink, and doesn't call out, because there is nothing to do, nothing to say, just endless cycles of dirt and blood and sweat, and all you can do is hope that enough of it piles on clean to keep you from snapping, and that routine keeps you sane, not otherwise.

This is Iraq, for Recon Marines: boxed-in fucking Victors; red-rimmed, stinging alert eyes; worse than retard command; tactical shits, and a steady diet of MREs, Ripped-Fuel and dip. 

This is Iraq, for Recon Marines: making do. 

This is Iraq, for Doc Bryan: there is a line, one that's skated by his hands when they stay steady over his burning M4 as they are over a casualty's open wound. He is a healer, he is a steel-eyed killer. He's so angry he can't fucking see, he doesn't feel a goddamn thing. There is a line, and he knows how to cross it every time except when it's quiet, except when he is alone, and there are no enemies, no wounded, just himself and his selfish fucking need to once, just once, step off the ground like he does when the adrenaline's spiking full-boar and forget what it's like to register, process, feel. 

This is Iraq, for Doc Bryan: one breath after another, eyes on the road, remember your training. Basically, bullshit.

 

"Hey Doc," says Rudy quietly after the bullshit non-mission to Recon the tank, stepping up alongside him after he's done getting the men as settled as they can be. 

"Yeah," says Doc. He closes his eyes. There's acid gurgling, live and uncomfortable, in his stomach. 

He's too tired to tell whether it's because he's coming down with the shits or because the constant, thrumming undercurrent of rage is finally giving him an ulcer. 

"Thanks," says Rudy. He nudges his nose, brief and quiet, against Doc's temple. When Doc finally opens his eyes he's gone, and Baghdad feels close, in that moment, too fucking close.

 

"You gonna stick around after?" says Rudy. 

Doc's silent for a long moment. It's one of those disarmingly beautiful stretches of daytime, the sky glowing dusty orange like it's hanging over a California beach, green fragrant grass moving silently in the breeze. It's easy, easier, like this, to remember that they're here fucking it all up. 

"Don't know," he says at last. "Not sure I'm the Marine type."

"You are," says Rudy. "You're here, you made it through, you're the Marine type."

"Maybe," says Doc. He shrugs. 

"I'm gonna tell you this, brother," says Rudy. "It probably won't make you feel better, because you're you, and that's different. But me, watching you." He pauses, tipping his cheek onto his bicep, eyes on Doc's profile. "It's good for the soul."

Doc glances at him, at his arms draped loosely about his knees, pulled close to his chest; disarmingly childlike for all his size. 

"Easier to put up with fuckups like Captain America and Encino Man, after seeing you do your thing."

"You're right," says Doc quietly, after a silence. "It doesn't make me feel better. About this. But I'm." He stops. "Thanks, Rudy."

Rudy reaches out, thumbing over his temple. "Any time, brother."

 

The thing about leaving Iraq, when he eventually, finally makes it out, the killer, is that life goes on. 

It turns out there is a world outside the sand and sun, the rumble of artillery on the horizon, the blood. There are bedsheets against his bare skin and air-conditioned supermarkets. 

There are decisions to make that don't involve shitting or shooting. 

Doc's never really thought of himself as inherently military. There are other things he wants to do with his life, and he resents it enough to keep from loving it. 

Two weeks after he's moved into his new place, he finds himself craving MRE pound cake. 

A month after, the place looks the same as the day he signed the lease, white and bare. 

Three months after, and he's still dreaming about beautiful Haji mothers curled over their bloodied children, still feeling the ghost weight of kids in his arms. 

Turns out Iraq gets to everyone, more than they think. Burrows under the skin, gritty and itchy like the sand it's made up of. 

Life goes on. It's not the same as forgetting. Ooh-fucking-rah.

 

"Mr..." Doc trails off, glancing up from the file and raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, Reyes?"

Rudy grins, springing to his feet. "Your patients are in and out faster than the other interns, Doc. Very efficient. I'm almost tempted to say military efficient."

"How 'bout that," says Doc dryly, pushing Rudy with a hand on his back into the exam room. He throws the file onto the table and sinks into his seat. Rudy stays standing, turning his head this way and that, taking in the office. "What can I do for you?"

Rudy's eyes snap back onto him. "Well, Doc," he says, lowering himself slowly onto the exam table. "It's my finger."

Doc's mouth twitches. He schools his face back into seriousness and leans forward. "Go on."

"Pretty nasty cut," says Rudy. 

"Well, let's take a look at it, then," says Doc, toeing his chair forward. Their knees bump as he pulls up in front of Rudy. Rudy's wearing khakis, not military issue, thinner fabric than the ones they hand out. His bones and bunched muscle scrape against the soft skin beginning its curve from the inside and around under Doc's knee. 

"You look good," says Rudy, laying his hand, palm up, on Doc's thigh. 

"You left the Corps," says Doc, wetting his lips. 

"Moved to San Fran, just like I always wanted," says Rudy. "It was time, brother."

"Yeah," says Doc. "Fuck, you don't need to tell me."

"You did, too," says Rudy. He grins. "Good to be out?"

"No one but myself to call incompetent." Doc nods. "'Course, that hardly stops me."

Rudy's silent for just a heartbeat. Then, "I don't believe you," he says, leaning forward the barest inch.

"Let's see this cut," says Doc quietly, swallowing around something strange, too big, too dry in his throat.

Rudy wiggles his index finger. "Just there, you see?"

"Hmm," says Doc. "Yeah, I see it." He tilts his head. "I think I have just the thing. Hang on." He reaches around to one of the drawers, tugging it open and pulling out a box. "Never short of supplies." He shakes the box slightly. "Still not quite used to it."

"The world out here doesn't have to make do, brother," says Rudy. "Just the Marines." 

Doc snorts. "Yeah," he says. He lifts Rudy's hand, curling his own beneath it, holding it still with his fingers pressed into the soft skin dipped into the hollow of his palm. He wraps the band-aid over the cut with his free hand, quick practiced flicks. "There," he says. "Better?"

"Much," says Rudy. He grins down at the florid pink band-aid, Sleeping Beauty skating on her heels across it in some odd repeated dance. "Thanks, Doc."

"Any time, Reyes," says Doc quietly. Strangest thing of all is that he means it. If he ever sees most of the whining, baby-soft, fucktard so-called Recon Marines he's served with again in his lifetime, it'll be too soon. Rudy, though, well. His morning-white smile, his ridiculous, grounding ailments, his quiet optimism: it's not unwelcome. Probably never will be.

 

Rudy's waiting for him when he leaves the hospital. Doc isn't surprised. He is surprised at how pleased he is. Rudy falls into step beside him, quiet, no fuss, like the good Recon Marine he is. 

"I don't have a wife anymore," he says, after a long stretch of silence. "She left me. I'm not tied down to the Corps. People generally say that I'm pretty hot."

Doc glances at him. "You don't have to sell yourself to me," he says. He stops walking.

"I get this," says Rudy, stepping around to face Doc, skimming his fingers over Doc's temple, and his chest, right over his heart, and his hands, the bumps of his knuckles.

"I know," says Doc quietly. 

Rudy nods, once. "You wanna grab a drink?" he says. 

Doc looks away, over Rudy's shoulder. The sun is just starting to rise, pale licks of purple and pink creeping over the horizon. The clouds are threatening rain. The air is clear, clean and sharp, and smells of coffee and petrol. The city-specific whiff of damp asphalt. It's everything and nothing like Iraq. Too foreign and too familiar all at once. 

He's pretty sure this is why returned soldiers have such a hard time re-acclimating.

"Sure," he says.


End file.
